The Death of a Living Metaphor
by Mirus Infidus
Summary: If this walking metaphor just up and dies, where does that leave us? What's that say for the rest of the world? I wasn't always fucked up, you know. Modern!AU, Reincarnation-ish, ghosts


When I was fifteen, I met my hero.

No, I shouldn't call him a hero. He fucking ruined my life—that's why I'm here, you know, doing this therapy shit. Because I met him, and he fucking ruined my life.

I wasn't a total fuck-up back then. I was actually one of those goody-goody types, that kid who reminds the teacher to collect the homework and who thinks everything in the world is fine, fine, fine. Then over the summer I got this internship at some art museum here in Paris—I used to live down south, so Paris was a big deal. And it was all going pretty okay, but then one day the guy running the thing said to me, "Grantaire, go hand out these flyers."

It was a pretty normal thing to do, but that doesn't mean it's not important. Because I was walking through the city for hours, handing out these flyers, and it was like someone decided the city wasn't hot enough with 4,000 fucking degree weather so they filled the streets with lava. And I got heat stroke and nearly passed out.

And that was the fucking catalyst for my rapid trip to the world of madness and to becoming the fine specimen you see before you.

I was evaporating out there, so I ran into this little café, and I asked the girl for something to drink. And my brain's so wonky from boiling in its own blood all day that I try to pay her in museum flyers. I probably looked like shit, too, because she gave me a free lemonade and had this guy help me upstairs to the bathroom so I could splash some water on my face.

The guy left me there, and I just threw my head down on the counter and started breathing real slow for about ten minutes. The lemonade was sitting right near my face, and once I remembered it I downed that motherfucker like it was an elixir straight from the Fountain of Youth. Then I got all cleaned up and practically drowned myself in the sink, and when I could walk a straight line without my vision going blurry or my legs giving out, I left the bathroom.

I caught sight of this door down the hall, and something's telling me to go open it, and the flyers I've got left are soaked anyway and I don't even want to think about going back outside, so I do it: I go and I open the door and I walk into the room.

And that's when I saw him for the first time. He was standing there with his back against the wall, staring at the door, and he didn't look surprised when I walked in.

And my first thought is "Shit, there's someone in here; this is awkward," and then it's, "Damn, he's fucking hot," and then it's "What the hell?" because he's wearing this waistcoat and he's got this tricolor sash and he's holding a flag in one hand. I start thinking "Is he an actor or a model or something?"

I'm just standing there, staring at him, and he's looking at me, and we just stare at each other for a while, and then he says, "You came back."

And I say really quickly, "What? I was just up here to wash up. I mean, I'll go." Except I stay right there, and I keep looking at him, because there's something about him, and I still don't get it, but there's something about him that makes me just stay there and keep staring.

Then he smiles and says, "You look much younger than I remember." And I fucking swear I know what he's talking about, but it's like I don't. It's like it's a fucking Rubik's cube, and I know all the colors mean something, but it'd be really fucking hard to make any sense of it. And he says, "You will still fight with me?"

And that, that makes something jolt inside of me, and suddenly there are no flyers or museums or teacher's pets, and there's just this man and those words and it's all too fucking much, and it's like a million things are hitting me all at once, and they come and they go so quickly I don't even know what's going on. And next thing I know, I'm holding the guy's hand, and he's smiling, and that's when I notice the blood on the wall and the holes in his waistcoat.

The last thing I remember was him lifting the flag up into the air. Then I must've passed out, because suddenly I was on the ground, blinking up at the barista's face. I'm still in that room, but the man's gone, and there's no blood on the walls, and I'm so confused. My head is pounding, and when I try to stand I end up stumbling.

The woman guided me back downstairs and gave me a bag of chips and a bottle of Coke, and she wanted me to stay there for at least half an hour so that I didn't end up passing out again, but I couldn't. I couldn't stay because I didn't know what was going on, and I could still feel that man's hand in mine, and it was like I was shaking underneath my skin, wanting to stay and find that man again and ask him something, but at the same time needing to get away from there, far away. Because something was wrong, and this was not the proper time to try to solve the Rubik's cube.

So, I ran away from that café. I made my way back to the museum, and when my supervisor asked what took me so long, I told him I got heat stroke. I didn't tell him about the man, though. That was something that didn't belong.

I never found the café again, even after moving here and searching the entire city. Maybe they tore it down. Or maybe it's been gone for a long time.

I still see the man sometimes. Not like that first time, never quite so clear. But he's still around. Sometimes I'll see his face, standing above a crowd, but when I turn to look, he's gone. Or I'll hear him, sometimes giving archaic speeches, sometimes reprimanding me. It sounds like he's right at my ear, whether I'm alone or in a crowd. Or somebody will put a hand on my shoulder or smack the back of my head, but there's nobody.

Actually, there's not nobody. You know what I think? I think he's a ghost. I think he knew me—or "me" in a past life—and now I'm back. My sister doesn't believe me. She thinks I'm crazy. I keep looking for him, because I'm ready to figure out the Rubik's cube, and my sister says it's unhealthy. You already knew that, I'm sure; she is the one writing you checks, after all.

To be honest, I really hope she's right. Because this man has ruined my life. There was something about him, something symbolic, a living metaphor. And he died. And if this walking metaphor just up and dies, where does that leave us? What's that say for the rest of the world? I don't want to hope, because hope dies, and I don't want to have to go through that. Booze helps. Helps me not to care.

The problem is, even though I don't want to care about or believe in anything, this man, the one who ruined everything, he's still here, and he makes me care too much, and believe too much, and it's all _too much_.

God, I don't even know if this is a problem I want to solve.


End file.
